


oh, the trouble we could get in

by xrysomou



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: D/S ish, Friends With Benefits, M/M, Spanking, stage fright
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-12
Updated: 2014-06-12
Packaged: 2018-02-04 10:34:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1775965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xrysomou/pseuds/xrysomou
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>It’s not about sex. It’s never been about sex. It’s something Patrick needs every once in a while and if Pete gets a kick out of it, that’s just an added bonus.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	oh, the trouble we could get in

**Author's Note:**

> The working title for this fic was I Need To Do My Big Bang So This Is The Next Logical Step.
> 
> A/N: This is a work of fiction - it is all lies, I know none of these people and you'd get very little money suing me.
> 
> Thanks to Xaritomene for cheerleading and persistently chanting 'POST THE THING' until I did.
> 
> Title from Jack's Mannequin

It doesn’t happen often and these days it’s even rarer – the crits may not have liked Soul Punk but Patrick considers it a success just because it forced him to interact with a crowd on a nightly basis. Of course, he’d got used to playing huge venues before Fall Out Boy went on hiatus, but it was different without the smokescreen of Joe and Andy and Pete to hide behind. But he’d sucked it up, smiled and dealt with it - and pretty well, he thought. And even if he’s never going to be a showman like Pete, at least he knows he can hold his own in front of an audience. But sometimes, when he overthinks it – starts thinking of the crowd as individual people with opinions and criticisms instead of a screaming amorphous mass of noise, he can feel the old familiar fear start to rise up again.

It happens a few hours before they’re due to go onstage in Manchester. Patrick’s getting over a cold and he’s been breathing recycled airplane air pretty much non-stop for the last month and for the first time this tour, his voice feels off. Add to that a chronic lack of sleep and the sheer weirdness of touring as FOB again, and Andy finds him sweating in the corner of their dressing room.

“Hey. You okay?”

“Fine,” Patrick says curtly.

Andy raises his eyebrows. He’s holding a flask of green stuff – spinach and lime and a load of all-natural, caffeine-free energisers – that he downs to get him warmed up before a show. Just the thought of it has Patrick dropping his head between his knees as a fresh wave of nausea rushes over him.

Andy purses his lips. “Yeah, I’m gonna get Pete.”

“Nah, I’m – I’m fine,” Patrick says, dragging in a breath and trying to smile.

“No, man. Seriously. Stay there.”

Patrick sighs. He’s long since given up being embarrassed that Andy and Joe know it’s a thing. That he and Pete have a thing they do when Patrick freaks out. There isn’t much you can hide on the road. The girls know about it so it’s not like they’re being underhand; this stuff isn’t Elisa’s thing and even if it was, she can’t help when she’s X-thousand miles away. Meagan’s only comment had been ‘hot!’ and to hug him. Patrick kind of loves Meagan.

“Dude?” Pete’s standing in front of him, looking a little worried. Patrick’s not sure what kind of picture he must be presenting, but it’s apparently not a good one. Just looking at Pete is a catalyst – Patrick can feel the familiar jittery feeling start under his skin. Andy was right; he needs this. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Just because he needs it, doesn’t mean he has to admit it.

Pete raises his eyebrows. “You look like you’re gonna throw up.”

“I’m _fine_ , Pete.” 

Pete just looks at him. “Patrick.”

And Patrick drops his guard and gets to his feet because that voice means the game is up. He needs this.

**

It always gets worse after he admits it’s a problem, like he’s opened up some sort of floodgate in his brain. By the time they navigate the labyrinth that is this particular hotel and Pete is dithering with his keycard, Patrick concentrates on anything that will stop him from jittering out of his own skin. At that moment it’s a picture hanging on the wall opposite Pete’s door; it’s a vase of tulips sitting in a patch of sunlight. It’s woefully bland but it distracts Patrick from the horrible sinking in his stomach and the white noise in his head. 

Fuck, he hates feeling like this.

Pete gets the door open just as Patrick’s ready to scream. He stumbles into the room, makes it about halfway and drops to his knees. The shock of pain that runs up through him as he hits the floor clears his head a little, dulls the roaring in his ears.

Pete kicks the door shut and walks over to the window, stripping off his jacket and dumping it on the couch. “Man, we haven’t done this in a while,” he says, grinning over his shoulder.

Patrick doesn’t answer; being down on his knees in the middle of the floor has set things in motion – he doesn’t think he could stop now if he tried. He feels like a collection of mismatched pieces and only Pete can put him back together again. “Please.” It tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. “Pete. Please.”

Pete turns and walks back over to him and Patrick can see him change; there’s an almost-imperceptible shift from regular, everyday Pete into the person Patrick needs him to be at that moment. It ‘s something in the stride, the sharpness of his gaze. He takes Patrick’s chin in his hand and forces his head up to meet Pete’s eyes. “Patrick. I need you to focus on me, okay?”

“Pete-“ He can feel himself shaking with the tension humming under his skin.

“Shh. I got you. Patrick, hand or belt?”

Patrick shudders. Pete’s wearing a belt today, a heavy leather one that does more to drag his pants down than hold them up. Patrick likes the belt – the swing and the sound and the burn of it across his skin, the searing pain that wipes his mind blank. Just thinking about it is almost enough to put him under.

“Patrick.” Pete’s hand tightens on his chin. “I need an answer.”

Patrick nods, tries to pull himself back to the present. He likes the belt – Pete would probably go easier on him with the belt – but he’s got a show get through and a fair amount of sitting down to do tomorrow.

“Hand,” he says eventually. “Please.”

“Okay. C’mon. Up you get.” Pete grabs Patrick’s collar and hauls him to his feet, pushing him in the direction of the bed. “Pants off.”

Patrick nods and shucks off his jeans, leaving them muddled up with his shoes on the floor. The first time they’d done this, he’d been so angry and embarrassed and lost in his own head that he’d punched Pete and hyperventilated in the bathroom for an hour. Now they’ve been doing this for so long that it feels almost normal.

It’s not about sex. It’s never been about sex. It’s something Patrick needs every once in a while and if Pete gets a kick out of it, that’s just an added bonus.

“Hands up.”

Patrick slides onto the bed in his t-shirt and boxers and wraps his fingers around the slats in the headboard, resting his forehead against the pillow as he tries to slow his breathing. He feels Pete’s palm between his shoulder-blades, heat bleeding through the thin cotton, grounding him.

“Give me a colour, Patrick.”

Patrick takes a deep breath in and out. “Green.”

“What do you say if you want me to stop?”

“Red.”

“Good.” There’s a beat of silence and Patrick holds his breath, anticipation prickling down his spine.

Then Pete hits him and the air whooshes out of his lungs on a gasp. Pete pauses, gauging Patrick’s reaction, and then hits him again, in the same place on the back of his thighs. Patrick shuts his eyes, tightens his hold on the headboard and lets the pain sweep him away. Pete’s not even hitting him very hard, just warming up, but the sting and the heat is enough to start pulling him under.

**

The first time he’d done this, Patrick had very nearly fucked it all up: he’d been seventeen and scared; he hadn’t known what to ask for, hadn’t known what it was he wanted, let alone how to go about getting it. As the crowds grew and the pressure grew, the panic grew, too, until he was snapping at everyone and sulking and generally being the most irritating little shit ever, hoping vaguely that someone would call him on it and make him pay. Luckily, it never got that far, as Patrick’s still half-convinced he’d be buried in a ditch somewhere if it had. 

The first time hadn’t been with Pete – it had been one of the techs on tour who’d seen how far Patrick was spiraling and had taken him aside one day. It had been one of the weirder conversations of Patrick’s life, one that had culminated in a scene just like this, with him standing by the bed in his boxers and a t-shirt, awkward and unsure but willing to try anything to get the panic to stop. 

Occasionally he wonders what seventeen-year-old Patrick would say if he could have seen where that particular path led. 

**

A stinging slap to the very tops of his thighs jolts Patrick out of his head and has him crying out into the pillow. Pete’s hitting him hard now, heavy and infuriatingly at random. Patrick can’t anticipate where or when the next blow is going to land – he’s on edge, waiting for the next spike of pain. He sobs a little as Pete gets in a particularly hard smack and then groans, frustrated, when he stops altogether.

“Patrick, give me a colour.”

“Green, _green_ , Pete, _come on_.” He hisses as Pete pinches his side hard in retaliation.

“Shh.” Pete says it almost lazily, moving away from the bed. There’s another agonising pause and then Pete hits the tender skin just under his ass, hard enough to force Patrick up the bed. Patrick grips the slats of the headboard until his fingers ache and pants out ragged breaths as Pete starts up again, going over skin he’s already bruised. He’s hitting hard now, and quickly – the sting of one slap hasn’t had the chance to fade by the time another one lands. The pain is fast and vicious and overwhelming; Patrick feels like he’s drowning in it. He ducks his head between his arms and lets the world fall away into the red behind his eyes.

**

Pete hadn’t found out until the end of the tour; what with the tech helping out, Patrick hadn’t needed to tell anyone. But when the next tour started and he found himself without a safety net, the panic started to grow again. Of course, Pete noticed – they lived in each other’s pockets and a bus wasn’t that much bigger than a van. And Patrick never could keep secrets from Pete. Pete wormed it out of him one evening after one too many illegal beers, and he’d smiled and hugged Patrick and said something about baby geniuses with baby demons. But that had been that and Patrick had fully expected to have seen the end of it.

What he hadn’t expected was Pete to slam into his hotel room with a stolen key, drag him up from the couch and slap him across the face hard enough that he tasted blood. Then, as he stood there, gasping with shock, Pete grabbed his face in both hands and muttered, “I’ve got no fucking idea what I’m doing, man. You’re gonna have to help me out.”

**

Patrick never gets over the feeling. The world has narrowed to the sound of his own breathing and the burn of his ass and thighs. All he can think about is the pain, but that doesn’t matter because it means there’s no room in his head for panic – just the rush of air and the smack, the numbness and then the slow, bright flare with its promise of bruises tomorrow. He’s vaguely aware he’s hard; every time Pete hits him, it forces his hips down into the mattress, the friction on his cock pushing him towards the edge but not enough to tip him over. The mix of pleasure and pain is heady, makes him feel almost drunk. Pete’s found his rhythm now, slower but just as hard, and every blow inches Patrick closer to the brink.

“Patrick.” Pete pulls back and Patrick sobs, a mess of mixed messages firing from his brain. He both wants the pain to stop and never wants it to end and now that Pete has stopped, he has no idea what to do. It feels horribly like falling. Then Pete’s hands are on his face, pulling his head up. “Patrick. Baby, give me a colour.”

“Green. Please. Please-“

“Okay. Okay. Shh,” Pete’s hands smooth through his hair briefly, and then leave. There’s a nanosecond of nothing and then Pete’s hitting him again. This time it’s the curve of his ass, and Pete hits it with relentless accuracy until the initial sting has morphed into a muscle-deep ache Patrick will feel for days. It sings through his blood, chased with the spike of pleasure as his hips slide along the mattress. He’s close to coming – he can feel the heat pooling at the base of his spine, flaring with every jolt against his ass – but he can’t quite get there. Pete’s rhythm is slow, steady and just shy of enough; it’s maddening.

“Pete. Pete, _please_.” Patrick’s not entirely sure what he’s asking for, just more.

“Shh.” 

The pace doesn’t change and Patrick sobs with frustration. All he can think of is _pain_ and _Pete_ and something shifting just out of his reach. He arches his back, rocking his hips down harder into the mattress. “Pete.”

“You’re okay,” Pete says soothingly and then then burning becomes fire as he rakes his nails across the bruised skin of Patrick’s thighs.

Patrick cries out – inside his head or aloud, he isn’t sure – louder, as Pete does it again. Then Pete’s voice is saying, “Now, Patrick, okay?” and he’s coming in his boxers against the mattress as his head goes gloriously blank.

**

He floats for a while. Vaguely he can feel Pete prising his hands free from the headboard and bringing them back down to the bed, petting at his hair and murmuring to him. He drifts, weightless, as Pete goes and comes back, wiping Patrick’s face with a cool cloth and wrapping him up in his jacket.

Slowly, Patrick starts to come back to himself, reassembled the right way if a little raw around the edges. Pete’s soaked a hand-towel in cold water and draped it along his ass and the backs of his thighs, soothing the sting and hopefully reducing the bruising. Patrick remembers the 5-hour journey to London the next day and winces. 

“All good?” Pete asks. He’s sitting on the couch across the room, curled up with a magazine he stole from New Politics about five months ago.  
Patrick nods, rolling over gingerly and standing up. He pulls a face as the front of his boxers stick to his legs. “Oh, that’s just gross.”

Pete snickers, outwardly unconcerned, but his eyes are still watchful. “Sorry, baby. Wish I could help.”

Patrick flips him off absently as he rootles through his suitcase in search of a clean pair of underwear. He peels off his wet boxers and pulls on a fresh pair before tackling the bed. He tries to straighten it up as much as he can; all the sheets are twisted into a knot. The cover is past prayer so he strips it back and piles it in a corner, wincing as his sore muscles pull.

"Oh hey," Pete says suddenly. "I got something for you."

"Yeah?" Something hits the bed next to him and Patrick picks it up. It's a tube of Arnica. He turns to grin at Pete. "Aw, thanks."

Pete shrugs. "Long bus ride tomorrow, man. That's gonna smart."

He looks ridiculously pleased with himself and Patrick giggles at him, still a little high from the endorphins. "Man, we are so fucked up."

"Well, yeah, but we're not as fucked up as we could be," Pete says encouragingly.

"If you say so." Patrick clambers back onto the bed and props himself up on the pillows. Pete stands up, absently shaking out his right hand. "You okay?"

Pete flashes him a grin. "Yeah."

Patrick eyes him; Pete always looks a little wary after these sessions - he keeps his distance, like he's trying to give Patrick some space. Patrick doesn't really want space. "C'mere. Wanna watch some TV?"

"Yeah." Pete slides onto the bed next to him, slowly sinking down into the ridiculously plush cushions. "What've we got?"

"Let's see." Patrick clicks on the TV and lets it sit on BBC News. Not that it matters, really - neither he nor Pete are in the right frame of mind to take much in. Still, it makes for soothing background noise.

Pete nudges him. "Feel better?"

Patrick smiles and nudges him back. "Yeah, much. Thanks, by the way."

"Any time." Pete yawns, stretching, and Patrick ducks to avoid a flailing elbow. "We're gonna kill it tonight."

They totally are.

**


End file.
